“So what do I do now?”
Cora leans forward slightly.
“It depends on what you want. I think the first thing you have to do is figure out how you feel about Julia, for both of your sakes. And then… I suppose you’ll sort out the rest. The only advice I can give you is to be careful.”
Martina turns the bottle over in her hands.
“Yeah, that would be the logical thing to do…” Martina says. “It’s just that I can’t believe a single glance was enough to bring back feelings I had… so long ago. I’m a mess.”
Before Cora can answer, Leo comes running in at that moment, holding a toy car.
“Auntie Martina, play with me!”
Martina smiles, grateful for the interruption. She gets up and follows him into the living room. As she plays with the boy, building impossible tracks with the wooden pieces, her mind keeps racing. Every laugh from Leo reminds her of what she has: people who adore her, a routine, a life that works. And yet, every time she closes her eyes, she sees Rebeca, along with all the possibilities that now lie before them.
Possibilities she has no idea how to face.
Chapter 9
Sunday moves slowly, with that somewhat deceptive calm of days when the city seems to suspend its usual rhythm. It’s almost lunchtime when Rebeca Noriega finishes setting up the folding ladder she’s placed against the living room wall. The apartment still retains the slight disorder of a recent move: a few open boxes next to the bookshelf, a couple of books stacked on the coffee table, and a lamp that is still waiting to find its permanent home.
From the kitchen comes the aroma of coffee brewed a while ago, now cooling, forgotten on the countertop.
Rebeca holds the hammer in one hand as she adjusts the frame she has just hung. She tilts her head slightly to one side to check if it’s straight, frowns, and gives the nail one more little tap.
“A little to the left,” says her mother’s voice from the laptop resting on the dining room table.
Rebeca sighs with a resigned smile.
“Mom, you’re two hundred kilometers away. I don’t think you have the best angle to judge.”
“Mothers always have the best angle,” she replies without hesitation. “Even if it’s just through telepathy.”
On the computer screen appear the three familiar faces watching the scene as if they were sitting in the same living room. Her mother, with that tender expression; her father, leaning slightly toward the camera, holding a cup of coffee; and her brother Roberto, who seems to be half-reclining on the sofa in the family home, with his cell phone in his hand.
Rebeca carefully descends the ladder and takes a couple of steps back, placing her hands on her hips as she looks at the picture. Inside the frame, protected behind the glass, are two printed pages from the first novel she translated when she was just starting out in the publishing world. It’s not a particularly valuable edition, but it holds deep meaning for her. It represents the beginning of something that, over the years, has come to define her professional life.
“Now it’s straight,” her father declares in a calm tone.
“Thank goodness,” Rebeca murmurs.
“It’s a shame you couldn’t take those couple of days off,” her mother says then, with that slightly accusatory tone that always comes out when she feels her children don’t visit her often enough. “We would have loved to have you here. I would have made you fabada and everything.”
Rebeca turns toward the table, resting one hand on the back of her chair.
“Mom, I just moved. And you already want me to come see you?”
“Is it my fault that I miss my daughter?” her mother retorts, with that feigned offense she always pulls off so perfectly. “Besides, your room is still just the way you left it. I even left that awful blanket you like so much.”
Rebeca lets out a laugh.
“The blanket isn’t horrible. It’s warm, and I’m almost forty. You should donate it.”
“Even if it’s plaid and smells like mothballs, I’m not going to do it. It’s still your blanket,” her mother protests.
Rebeca walks over to the laptop and leans with her arms crossed on the edge of the table. For a moment, she allows herself to watch them in silence. There’s something comforting about the scene. That Sunday routine, the conversation, the familiar tone. Over the past few years, while she’d been living in another city, those video calls had been a kind of anchor to the world where she’d always felt safe—a reminder that no matter what happened, there was a place to return to.
“And how are you handling everything else?” Roberto asks suddenly, finally looking up.
